


And naught but dust beneath your feet

by Jarakrisafis



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2018-10-13 06:43:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10508418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jarakrisafis/pseuds/Jarakrisafis
Summary: A Dwarven Prince who would have been happier to be born Warrior Caste, a Brand who should have been born a Noble, a Storyteller who's finding he's ending up starring in his own stories and a Carta member who's cleverer than he appears.





	1. Origins: Aeducan and Brosca

**Author's Note:**

> Or in other words - I played my way through Origins with both Faren and Duran and somehow this morphed into Duncan conscripting Faren and then heading into the deeproads as they do in Durans origin and thus before heading for the surface they pick up an exiled Prince. DAII became the story of Varric and his supporting cast, and Inquisition... well, I had an idea that came to me within the first few hours of the playthrough and would not leave.  
> And because there aren't enough Dwarven stories around here.

There was a time when this would have been unthinkable, a travesty of what is right and proper. That time is far behind us, lost in memories of fights fought until one forgets anything but the pain of aching muscles and half healed wounds and the slowly creeping darkness that is covering the land. Strange how things work out in the end. I'm not quite sure when I first noticed, it had become so engrained (and the fate of the world is still pressing in), that there was no time to fight extra battles amongst each other. Still it went against everything I had been brought up to believe in and part of me recoiled from the very thought. The new parts of me, walls built against a bright world that makes little sense to one used to the strict lines and partitions in Orzammar, were intrigued, and perhaps it is a little selfish of me to admit; relieved.

The brand (criminal, worthless, caste-less, not fit to speak in my presence) stepped forwards and spoke when I still fought to find the right things to say. Silver tongued, he wove his way through intrigue and politics with a keen intelligence that far outstripped my own. Only in the arts of war was I comfortably ahead of him. He could brawl, knew every dirty trick, and held no qualms about slashing a throat in the night, but he could not see what I could on a map. He couldn't reposition troops and stay ahead of the dark tide creeping across the land.

Survival is a great motivation and in those first frantic weeks after Ostagar fell there was no time to stop and think, no time to see what was happening. Now it's too late. Here I stand, half a step behind Faren. Behind a brand. And he speaks for us both.

And he speaks well. Children are not their Ancestors. That is a lesson the surface taught me well. Whatever the first Brosca did to be branded as worthless, his scion has a mind that would be the envy of the warrior houses, able to quickly grasp the strategies I suggest even if he has trouble coming up with them in the first place. Amongst the Nobles though is where he would truly shine, his tongue as sharp and sly as any who make their home in the Diamond Quarter. He would make a better King than Bhelan or Pyral.

That's a sobering thought and I almost miss the throwing axe that heads in my direction after Faren hands the crown to my brother. Ex brother. It's a good thing I haven't taken my helmet off or I'd have another scar to add to my growing collection.

Faren growls out a dust town curse and throws himself into a backwards roll to smoothly come up behind me as I swing my shield off my back and draw my mace in a smooth well practised manoeuvre. It's a tactic that's become second nature (I wear scale and plate, he prefers leathers and chain) and works well. If they want to take out the crossbow wielding, knife throwing menace behind me, they have to go through me first and that is no easy feat. It's almost simple to subdue Pyral's followers. Most nobles don't train to really fight (honourable combat in the proving grounds is nothing like fighting darkspawn), that's what the warrior caste is for and Faren shakes his head as he leads us down to the commons when it's over, muttering imprecations upon the Noble caste and their ancestors, (I let him rant and just nod at all the right points) up until we settle into a booth at the back of Tapsters Tavern. I prop my shield up, heraldry facing outwards in case anyone takes offence at us carrying weaponry and lean backwards with a sigh, all the aches and pains from the deep roads excursion coming back.

Faren snorts as he waves at the barkeep. “You can't drink with your helmet on salroka.”

“I know, let me settle down first.” A single eyebrow raises as he wordlessly tells me that my bluff has been called and he knows I'm stalling.

A serving girl puts a couple of ales down and she and the coin Faren pushes towards her disappear back into the crowd without a word. One is pushed towards me as he raises the other in a salute.

I waver for another moment before unbuckling it and tugging it off. I raise my own mug as Faren reaches out to run a hand through my hair - I don't know why he bothers, ever since I cut it short (there's no servants on the surface in the wilds to help with intricate braiding) it refuses to lie in any semblance of order. His fingers brush across my cheek and his grin as he pulls away is infectious.

I never planned to come back to Orzammar, if I had, I might have thought twice about getting the caste-less brand marking etched onto my face (mine is still a tattoo, not ink over a brand as his is). Now though, sitting beside Faren, ignoring the glares and comments (often pitched deliberately to be overheard) from around us, I have no regrets. Duran, (of no house in particular, caste-less, brand and warden), has done far more useful things in his much shorter lifespan than Duran (second child of the Royal and Noble House Aeducan) ever did.


	2. Origins: Aeducan and Brosca

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You didn't expect him to come here. No. Be honest with yourself. You totally did. Brosca doesn't have you there to stop him anymore, for you were always the voice of caution, of reason.
> 
> Just playing through Origins and I couldn't believe there wasn't an option to persuade Leske back to your side, and the thought wouldn't leave until I wrote it out.

You didn't expect him to come here. No. Be honest with yourself now. You totally did. Brosca doesn't have you there to stop him anymore, for you were always the voice of caution, of reason. He charged in and held the attention and you slid in behind and hit the unprotected backs. Not that he couldn't sneak, when he was reminded that a job had to be quiet, that is.

Nobody is holding him back now, his daggers are dripping red across the ground, across the back of the mabari he has one hand at the neck of, the beast crouching, tense, ready to charge at a moments notice. For all Faren's stillness you know he's just as ready. His other companion, a heavily muscled dwarf, is leaning on his shield, apparently unconcerned by the fast approaching threat of violence.

Jarvia sounds smug, confident. You're not so sure. You remember that last trip through Beraht's den, you remember the demon of steel you fought beside, or perhaps more like behind. Twin blades flashing in the dim lighting, he was unstoppable then. Now, he's filled out, muscle and good armour, they've been feeding him well topside, he's probably even better now.

You flinch as his eyes focus on you, your name from him is familiar, the hint of pain, a wordless 'why?' as he asks Jarvia how she won your loyalty.

Beside you Jarvia chuckles, and it is all you can do not to look away at the shock, then denial that flash across Faren's face so fast you're not sure anyone but you really saw them as he settles into a smoldering anger.

“I never would have betrayed you.” His words are quiet, so sure of himself and you know he speaks only the truth.

“You got too much sun on the brain, you forgot what it's like, when Beraht died Jarvia came out on top, she's got the swords, the coin and she's got the bed where I sleep. If you were here you would have done the same.” The words are like bitter ashes, an excuse for nothing and everything. Because you didn't have a choice. He knows that. Dust town only gives two choices. Living or dying. You chose to live, to survive. He's not stupid, he'd have fallen in line, played the game, bowed to Jarvia, done whatever it takes to survive. 

But that moment, it feels like days ago not mere hours, when you saw him again in dust town, saw him and said nothing. He'd have spoken then, he'd have done what you couldn't. He's always told you the truth, he wouldn't have betrayed you. He's always been reckless, unafraid to do what needs doing. It doesn't hurt anymore to admit that you can never be as strong as him, you're a coward. You always will be without him. He was your rock to stand beside, to keep you strong.

You've needed him and he wasn't here. What does he expect? 

“I know you couldn't really turn on me.” There's something there, an entreaty, an opportunity hidden in his words. 

“No,” Jarvia laughs, so self assured, “we'll see who holds the leash here.” You know what she's going to say next and you realise in this moment that seems to stretch on as you hear her order you to kill them, that there's never truly been a choice.

You forget how short battles are, over so quickly, just flashing steel, screams and the scent of blood and it's done.

“Leske.” You blink, finding tears in your eyes as you struggle to stand, blood coating your hands, blades forgotten on the floor. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't need to. He understands all too well. Dust town doesn't give luxuries like choices, it breaks down every wall, until there's nothing left but to make the best of what's left in the rubble.

Hate and love are dangerous things. Jarvia used them, twisted Dwarva around her fingers and tied them to her, but she never really understood. Not until the end. Not till surprise widened her eyes as you buried your blade in her chest, as close as you were she didn't even try to block, your blade slipping free as she collapsed.

You pull away as his companion approaches, he'd been checking for traps and any remaining carta that hadn't run when Jarvia fell, members that may have been hiding away and planning to ambush them, although you're sure that any smart members that might be left have gone to ground by now. Word doesn't take long to spread down here.

Faren kneels, passing your blades up before searching Jarvia's body till he pulls out a key. “Let's go.” You step into place beside him without a second thought and the mabari huffs, head cocked before taking up his other side.

Later, you know he'll want to talk, but for now, you have a job to finish.

It's not far to get out, neither you nor Faren have forgotten the route you took last time, although the blockage at the end is unexpected. Still, the wall falls to a charge by his companion, the plate wearing dwarf, who trips over the collapsing stone and rolls through the newly made opening to sprawl on the ground, plaster dust and bricks settling around him and Faren heads for the shopkeeper who is staring, bemusement and outrage warring for dominance on his features at the newly made doorway into his shop.

You don't hear what is said, the situation is too familiar and you chuckle, that quickly becoming a full on laugh at the growing outrage and indignation on the traders face as Faren gestures back at the hole with a negligent wave of one blood covered glove.

You rub the brindled tan head that pushes under your arm, looking down at the huge hound who is giving you an inquisitive stare, “long story Salroka, long story.”


	3. Inquisition: Cadash

People, as a rule, do not see further than the surface. They see what they expect and look no further. Carta, he said when they asked, eyes drawn to his tattoos, shrugs his shoulders when they ask complicated question, pitch his voice lower and let the burr of a lowborn thug take up residence. Paint a picture of surprise and awe on his face at the assembling Inquisition. Be intelligent, but not too clever when they ask his advice.

He almost laughed when he first heard the title Herald being bandied around, whispered behind his back. He doesn't even believe in Andraste. He doesn't say that though, just nods; confirm nothing, deny nothing, let others come to their own conclusions. Silence often says more than words. Not even all the Brothers and Sisters in the Chantry believe, why should he. He just shrugs apologetically whenever anybody hears him curse by the stone. He's a dwarf. That's just what Dwarves do.

So when Haven grows, more people joining the fight, he looks around with awe, trots out and runs errands, closes rifts and whatever else needs doing. He doesn't say anything when he hears the whispers of needing a name for this growing thing. Why would he, let them think they thought of it all, and they'll surrender themselves without a complaint because it was their choice.

He lets his advisors fight each other, lets them wear themselves out. They can be the wolf and the bear and the lion that fight for the kill. He nearly laughed at that thought, a small smile, hidden as he ducked his head to peer at the map unrolled on the table betraying him. Cassandra is the wolf, once she gets an idea she'll chase it down no matter what. But she lacks the drive to work alone, she needs direction, she needs a pack. Josephine is the bear, all indignant growling and posturing when her cubs are threatened. She'll protect the Inquisition, her den, with everything she has. Cullen, he's the lion, that name has already stuck and it fits him well. He's the head of the pride, brave and fearless, he's also quick to respond and doesn't see the manipulation going on beneath the surface. There is another, already named, that is an exception. Nightingale plays the same game and Edric relishes the thought of having a worthy opponent. 

Edric himself, he's the fox, cunning and patient. He stands in the drafty room they requisitioned as a new map room in the mountain hold they found and lets them come to the decision, just nudging them with questions every so often and even Nightingale sees what she wants to see. When they are done the curve of his lips in a satisfied smile is reserved until he is alone. Inquisitor is a much better title than Herald.

As the time goes on he finds that this newly formed Inquisition only goes from strength to strength. Humans flock to it's banner in the hundreds and even elves and dwarves (and a lone Qunari) step up. Edric nods at the dwarves, smile on his face as he watches them unload trading caravans and they smile back as he pretends he has no idea what they're carrying. Lyrium is a hot commodity in a Hold with both Templars and Mages working side by side.

Time drags out, endless battles and negotiations as they gain support from even the most fractious of individuals (Orlais, that would be you in your entirety). Then in the space of only a few days Corypheus is dead. Again. Hopefully for the final time.

Edric stares out over his Stronghold. The humans are planning to leave now the war is won. They have a Chantry to run. Edric thinks he will stay. The stone is good here. Good enough to carve out a kingdom of his own beneath Skyhold. 

The light tread of boots on stone draws him out of his musing and he tilts his head, matching the step to his memory, light steps in soft leather... Varric. He smiles as his guess is correct, his fellow dwarf rounding the corner and coming to a stop a few paces away.

“Deshyr Cadash.” Edric blinks. Then he chuckles, the sound filling the space and he sees Varric frown, uncertainty painted on his face. He's not sure if he's right. Or perhaps, that he wants to be right.

“Deshyr Tethras.” He says when he finishes laughing and watches the faint tightening of Varrics fingers at his belt when he responds in kind rather than deny anything. Those fingers are near enough to his knife to draw and cast if he needs to, yet Edric isn't worried, he knows he's faster on the draw than the archer, and besides his blade is already at hand, shielded unseen between his body and the battlements.

Varric's expression slips for a moment, it's long enough for Edric to name the emotions that pass across his features. Admiration (of course, the merchant has his own formidable spy network that hadn't worked out the truth), a flash of fear (of course, this is a secret Edric has long kept and he's killed people to keep lesser things known) and finally a rueful twist of his lips as his hand moves away from his knife to hook into his belt and he nods. “Well played Dasher.”

Edric smiles, sharp and sly, an old fox showing his true colours. “The Carta always gets their cut.”


End file.
